


Worse Monsters

by ThereWillBeCubes



Category: This Is Not Romance - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Blood, M/M, This is an AU of an AU version of a character, Violence, Zombie AU, also really graphic and gross, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6205216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereWillBeCubes/pseuds/ThereWillBeCubes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay so Gatobob has this webcomic called This Is Not Romance (which is really good btw and I highly recommend) but also a sideblog/darkblog which is pretty much my thing, and they've got an OC named Strade. In a nutshell he's a psychopath. So of course, I'm writing about him </p>
<p>So what do I do but put one of my OCs in a zombie apocalypse AU and let them meet and god. (My OC is Cass and he's just trying to survive okay but yeah)<br/>This is seriously like, maybe some parts are the grossest I've submitted online so... you've been warned.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Worse Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so Gatobob has this webcomic called This Is Not Romance (which is really good btw and I highly recommend) but also a sideblog/darkblog which is pretty much my thing, and they've got an OC named Strade. In a nutshell he's a psychopath. So of course, I'm writing about him 
> 
> So what do I do but put one of my OCs in a zombie apocalypse AU and let them meet and god. (My OC is Cass and he's just trying to survive okay but yeah)  
> This is seriously like, maybe some parts are the grossest I've submitted online so... you've been warned.

-

 

It's a quiet day, but that's a blessing, Cass supposes.

He's following an empty, narrow road, in the hopes it may lead somewhere safe, somewhere not yet crawling with the undead, and maybe the friendly living.

The sun beats mercilessly on his neck; Cass wishes his hair would grow more, already feeling anticipatory tingling on his skin, knowing by sunset it will have bright pink branded across it, and sleeping was hard enough without pain.

Sweat trickles from his forehead, he brushes it away with the back of his hand before it can get into his eyes, yet his mouth is dry. He's not going to empty the canteen in his backpack until he's desperate.

For the better part of two days he's been searching for water, plodding along the roadside, keeping his ears out for that telltale sound. Growling, gurgling, shuffling. Danger.

There are a few cars up ahead, one tipped over, the others with their doors wide open, rubbish and debris strewn about.

Water is a long shot, but they could have a first aid kit, god, even some loose bandaids would be welcome.

The first two cars have nothing inside but wrappers, ruined food, and some desiccated bodies, skin black and clinging to their skeletons.

Cass looks at the last one, tentatively eyeing the scratches all over the paint, the broken windows. He glances around, and while he can see some movement in the woods, he's certain that if he stays quiet, whatever it was wouldn't bother him.

He checks the front seats, finding a nearly empty lighter amongst cigarette ash and dust, and clambers over to look in the back seats.

There's a quiet shuffling noise, and Cass' stomach drops as a head pops over the seats, a pair of grey eyes staring blankly his way, lank black hair hanging in matted clumps around them.

The tiny undead lets out a raspy, excited sound, clambering over the car seat, and Cass scrabbles back, mind blanking in fear for a moment as he tries to get away.

He yelps, falling ass-first out of the car, his right leg hooking and tangling in the seat belt, and it locks from the sudden movement, yanking the prosthetic away from the rest of his body.

There's a hissing sound as air fills the gap between socket and leg, pulling at his liner, and for a moment there's that sickening feeling of his leg coming loose, useless.

The zombified child is gurgling as it crawls along the seat, scrabbling at his prosthetic with broken fingers.

“Get- off!” Cass snarls, aiming his other foot at it's head. The heavy boot crushes it's thin skull, and grey flesh and ichor gushes out, coating everything. Cass wrinkles his nose, coughing at the putrid smell, trying to lean forward and unhook his leg, but he can't get a good hold.

He falls back, sucking in his lip and hissing in frustration, and instead he begins cutting through the seat belt, blunted knife dully working at the thick material.

He can hear shuffling behind him; painfully moving his head around to see two more of the creatures coming out from the trees, gurgling excitedly.

“Fuck-” he spits, wrist aching as he saws back and forth, “fuck-!”

His body tenses, one arm bracing, the other ready with his weapon. He'd just stab and pray he didn't get bitten.

There's the sound of running footsteps, quick and heavy, crunching over the broken glass, and with a rush of relief, Cass realises it's another living person, black bandanna covering their face and hands reaching for the undead.

The newcomer snags the first with a gloved hand, driving a large knife into it's skull with one easy stab, and without stopping, yanks it out and grabs the arm of the second, breaking it.

Blood and decaying matter spray the ground as they carve through it's face, and it's body shudders to a stop, crumpling to the ground.

Panting slightly, as if they'd just completed a light jog, the stranger pulls down their bandanna; yellow eyes above a strong, masculine face, and wearing an easy, friendly grin as he comes closer.

He raises an eyebrow at the sight, eyes travelling from Cass' surprised face to the prosthetic, still entangled.

“You should be more careful,” he says, voice tinged with slight amusement, flicking his hand and scattering droplets over the road. He crouches, and close-up Cass can see his knife is a bona fide survival knife, the kind the army used before it dissolved altogether. It frees him quickly, edge razor-sharp.

“Uh, thanks...” Cass mutters, shuffling back, leg scraping against the bitumen.

“No problem,” the stranger replies, smiling. There's a long scar on his jaw, partially obscured by rough black stubble, and Cass wonders if he's actually been able to shave. That could mean water. He'd helped him once, right?

Gripping the side of the car, Cass pulls himself up, and when he wobbles, trying to keep upright, the man grabs the undersides of his arms. He doesn't even seem to break a sweat at holding most of Cass' body weight, and little chill runs up his spine. _Scary-strong._

Cass awkwardly adjusts his prosthetic, pushing down to let the vacuum reseal; the liner is worn and strained, and the socket chafes his skin, a year of abuse and heavy sweating ruining it, but it's still his leg, and he's pleased as it still holds tight.

“Did you get a bite?” the stranger asks curiously, watching as Cass tests his weight, hands still holding him.

“No, had this for years,” he replies uncomfortably, “that's why it fits...”

“Handy,” is the response, and again, he sounds amused. Cass wonders if he should feel offended.

“I've- I've got it, thanks,” Cass mutters, not wanting to sound rude to the guy that just saved his life.

“Okay,” stranger replies, smiling and splaying his hands, “just didn't want you to fall over again.”

The leg seems stable, and Cass lets out an audible sigh of relief, smile touching his face.

“Ah,” he sighs, leaning back and letting himself breathe, “thought I was toast. Thanks, uh-?”

“Name's Strade,” the stranger replies, sticking out his hand.

“Cass.” His handshake is strong, almost on the verge of crushing, but not quite.

“You look a bit toasty, Cass,” Strade remarks, tapping his own neck, shirt open-collared and the skin deeply tanned, “how long have you been out here?”

“No idea,” Cass says, tentatively touching the back of his neck. It stings a little, “I had to leave my old safehouse. Pretty sure it's summer again with this heat.”

“Do you have a group?” Strade asks curiously, tilting his head. Everything about him is relaxed, easy open stance, plain shirt with rolled up sleeves, and travelling extremely light.

“Uh... no,” Cass replies, feeling a small frown furrow his brow, “used to, but... you know how it is.”

He runs a hand through his hair, fixing his gaze on Strade's chest, rather than his piercing yellow eyes, “people don't stick around for long.”

“I hear that, buddy,” Strade replies, for the first time sounding not-cheerful, looking away, “so you've got nowhere to go?”

Cass shuffles uncomfortably. As much as he doesn't want to follow a perfect stranger, his mouth and throat are painfully dry, and this stranger just risked his life to save his.

“Not really,” he says softly. His heart feels tight in his chest.

“Well, if you want, I've got plenty of room,” Strade says, rather hopefully, and Cass wonders how long he's been alone out here, “water, food, and the shelter is pretty soundproof.”

“S-Soundproof?” Cass asks confusedly, eyebrows shooting up.

“Yeah, buddy, so you don't have to worry about every little noise bringing those fuckers to the door, it's great.”

“Heh, that sounds pretty... good,” Cass replies, “... what's the catch?”

“Catch?”

“You're offering me food, water, shelter. What do you... want in return? What could you want?”

Something crosses Strade's face; instead of opening it up, it becomes unreadable and blank. His eyes are cool, flat, inexpressive.

“It's boring,” he says simply, “no company but those biters. And all they do is growl.”

“Seriously? That's it? Keep you company?” Cass asks. Strade shrugs.

“That's it.”

Wherever it was, Cass was certain it was nearby. Had to be, for Strade to be carrying next to nothing. And fuck, was he thirsty.

“Uh, well, sure.”

Strade's face splits into a grin, and he slaps a hand onto Cass' shoulder.

“Great! Just follow me, buddy!”

He sets off at a very quick pace, leaving Cass blinking in surprise, before hurrying to follow.

“Oh, geeze, sorry, I'm just excited,” he laughs, beaming.

“I'm worried I'm going to disappoint now,” Cass replies as he catches up; Strade's sticking to the road, and it's easier on his leg to have the smoother bitumen to walk on.

“Don't be, buddy.”

There's a break in the trees and overgrown underbrush, a small dirt road winding through the woods, sided with wild blackberry bushes.

“This way!”

Cass can hear himself puffing at the pace, and Strade pulls the canteen from his belt.

“Thirsty?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, drink up, buddy,” he says, unscrewing the cap and shaking it, making the water inside slosh about.

The water is warm, but Cass' never tasted sweeter, feeling it wash away the dirt and dust coating his throat.

“Thanks- Strade-” he splutters, feeling his body fill with renewed energy.

“That leg really keeps up, eh?” Strade asks, “how'd you get it?”

“It's a long story,” Cass replies, absent-mindedly rubbing his thigh.

“I'm a great listener,” Strade insists; and indeed, he does look very interested. Poor guy probably hadn't had anyone to talk to in ages.

“Well...”

The walk is longer than he expected, but flies by as he talks about his time before the apocalypse; born with the lower part of his leg missing, all his childhood adventures and mishaps, stupid shit he did in high school and college, and meeting the group that was ultimately with him, when it... happened.

“-and Hugo said he'd chop off the leg next time it happened, I was being such a dick about it.”

Strade howls with laughter, wiping tears from his eyes.

“In hindsight, it was a pretty shitty thing to do,” Cass sighs, remembering the look of horror on his friend's face as he believed the prosthetic was on Cass' left leg, and the right one that had been bitten would have to be removed.

“That's hilarious,” Strade replies, chuckling. Cass half-smiles and shrugs.

The woods have opened up to a small town, most of the houses boarded up, cars and rotting bodies in the streets. Fraying, bleached quarantine and state-of-emergency posters flap in the breeze and skate over the overgrown lawns. There's graffiti sprayed over some of the houses, faded reds and blacks.

 

_GO AWAY_

_LEAVE NOW!_

_TOWN NOT SAFE! ARMY GONE!_

 

“Here we are,” Strade says, stopping in front of a tall gate, padlocked with a thick chain. The house sitting behind it looks similar to the others; heavily boarded and stakes hammered in around it, but at the very least, he knows it's lived-in.

“Friendly town,” Cass remarks dryly, and Strade chuckles.

“Yeah, used to have neighbours,” he says, producing a large ring of keys, “but most of them ran, and the rest...”

The lock springs open, and with one thumb he draws a line across his throat, before shrugging.

“Well, you know how it is, right?”

The house itself is silent, darkened, and Cass' eyebrows shoot up at the empty, dusty first floor. The door shuts heavily behind him as Strade locks it. Sunlight stripes the floor through minuscule spaces in the wood, dust motes swirling in the brightness.

“I don't use the above-ground floors,” Strade says, stepping around him, voice swallowed up by the oppressive walls, “basement is much safer.”

Cass silently follows him, stopping as he begins thumping down some stairs. They're quite steep, and even with the handrail, he knows they're going to be a problem.

“What's up, buddy?” Strade asks curiously, pausing halfway.

“Uh- just hate stairs,” Cass says, trying to sound unconcerned as he slowly steps down.

“Oh yeah, you fell down them a lot growing up,” Strade replies. He grins wider as Cass' surprise shows clear on his face, “told you, buddy, I'm a listener.”

“I just have to get used to them...” Cass mutters, glad his flush would be invisible in the darkness.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Strade replies.

It's slow-going, but eventually he makes it to the base of the stairs, Strade waiting patiently, holding the door open.

It's even darker inside, but Strade fiddles with a panel on the wall and along the roof, several bulbs wink into life, casting small pools of yellow around the room.

“What's powering them?” Cass asks curiously.

“Solar panels,” Strade replies, indicating some complicated-looking circuitry attached to a powerboard, “had them before this all happened, but had to do some re-wiring. Got it in the end.”

Cass' eyes roam over the space; it's almost an antechamber of sorts, a storage room, with rolls of wire, panels, metal and scraps littering the benches.

“I keep all my spares here,” Strade says, waving a hand, unlocking another door, “most of the magic happens in the main room.”

“You... good with this stuff?” Cass asks, noting the grease stains on Strade's shirt and fingers.

“Yeah,” he replies, and the door clunks open, “take a look.”

Curious, Cass steps through. The room is bigger, tools on the walls, work benches strewn with bits and pieces, makeshift weapons, leather straps, bundles of clothes. From the roof dangle long chains, ending with hooks that hold rope and piping.

In the centre of the room is a plain workbench, but his blood runs cold at the stains in the wood; not grease or oil, but blood.

There's a faint scraping sound, distant, and Cass' heart leaps into his throat as the door closes behind him.

“So, what do you think?” Strade asks from behind him. His entire body feels frozen as he takes in little details. The clothes are bloodstained, torn, and strewn amongst the benches are bones, some cracked open, hollowed of marrow. In the yellow light, some of the hooks shine dull red and brown, the tools encrusted with gore, and, god, there are backpacks and boots in a pile, all different shapes and sizes.

His entire body is tensing, flooding with adrenalin, brain haywire as it tries to find escape options, and coming up empty.

He was in the lion's den, and the fucking lion was standing in front of the only exit.

“Hey, Cass,” it purrs in his ear, “we're gonna have fun.”

Cass elbows him in the stomach and steps on his foot, darting around him as he doubles over. The first door is blessedly unlocked, and the second requires a simple flick of the lock to open.

But even as he throws it open, surging through, heart thundering in his chest, he despairs at the flight of stairs.

He's not quick enough.

“Got you,” Strade laughs, clamping a hand around Cass' wrist, the momentum sending him sprawling, the joint popping audibly.

“Let- go-!” Cass yelps, kicking out, and his words are consumed by a scream, Strade stomping viciously on his left calf.

“Ha-” he huffs, dragging Cass by his ankles, “ahaha...”

He hauls Cass onto the table, pinning down his legs first, laughing as Cass thrashes, holding his aching leg down and affixing a leather strap over his ankle.

“Okay, gonna take this thing off,” he pants, but as his fingers dig at the lining, Cass throws his torso up, taking the knife from his belt. He slashes at Strade's face, and the man rears back, a line of red cutting across his cheeks.

“Almost got me, buddy!” he crows, and with an easy twist jerks the knife from Cass' grip, sending it clattering to the table. His brows flatten, eyes darkening.

“But not quite.”

He forces Cass down, body weight and strength too much for his weaker body to resist, and in short order both of his wrists are strapped down. Next goes his leg, and either with no concept of how to properly remove it, or not caring, Strade simply pulls until both lining and leg have come off, tossing it behind him with a loud clatter.

“There we go.”

Cass can feel himself on the verge of hyperventilation, watching as the other man relaxes, unbuttoning his shirt, breathing deeply, a lopsided smile stretching cracked lips.

“I- I don't understand,” Cass whispers, and Strade cracks open one eye to look at him, “you said- you were... lonely.”

“I said I had no company,” Strade replies, “neighbours didn't last long. Army didn't either. They left behind some good toys, though.”

He grabs the front of Cass' shirt, and slices it open, exposing his thin torso, dry, flaky skin over prominent bone structure.

“Not much meat on you, huh?”

The tip of the blade ghosts over his skin, and Cass' entire body trembles as it slowly sinks in, drawing a shallow cut from sternum to stomach. Strade's tongue runs over his teeth, making a satisfied sound as blood wells along the opened cut, slipping down Cass' sides.

Strade makes a few more cuts, saliva dripping from his mouth, eyes dark with amusement and hunger.

“Would've liked some more flesh on you,” he murmurs, licking his lips, and Cass' stomach churns as he tastes the red on the knife tip, “but beggars can't be choosers.”

“Flesh?” Cass whispers involuntarily. Strade's eyes seem to brighten, and his rough fingers tease the slitted skin, sinking inside.

“Man's gotta eat,” he says, apparently non-committal, but the grin on his face is too wide, excited.

Cass' entire consciousness is in freefall. He almost expected to be eaten one day, by slavering, mindless creatures, once human, reduced to monsters.

Not by one that had never been human.

“So hey, buddy,” Strade says, leaning over as his fingernails; grimy and caked with blood, scratch at his shirt sleeve, “tell me. You killed anyone? You didn't mention it in our _chat_ earlier.”

“Any... any humans?” Cass asks, swallowing thickly, eyes casting from side to side.

“Anything and everything,” Strade replies with relish, “what have you killed?”

Cass feels an awful cold creeping up his spine at the genuine interest, the taller man perching himself on the side of the table. The large knife he'd used to slice the bandit's throat is clean, and he's running one bare fingertip along the razor-sharp edge.

“Uh- uh, I've lost... count of the undead,” Cass starts, “there's just... so many, and-”

“Live humans,” Strade interrupts, eyes bright, “what about them?”

“...two,” Cass whispers, heart seizing with shame and grief. He tried not to think about it.

So of course that piques Strade's interest.

“Two? Names?”

“...Hugo and Rhys.”

“Hugo and Rhys, those good _friends_ of yours, I remember,” he repeats, grin creeping higher on his face. He has a chipped canine, and for a horrible moment Cass wonders if he'd ripped out someone's throat before.

“They get bit? Begged you to kill them? Or did you make that decision?”

“Begged,” Cass whispered, unable to say anything else.

“How'd you do it, buddy? You strike me as a handgun type of guy.”

Cass' eyes go wide, stomach dropping.

“Figures,” Strade says, “at least tell me you missed or something. Hit 'em in the neck, watch them bleed out?”

“N-no,” Cass whispers, empty stomach churning and nauseous.

“How _boring_ ,” he replies, “alright, enough of that.”

He taps at the handle of his knife, tilting his head as if thoughtful. But his face says only wicked amusement, and his smile promises nothing but pain.

“Do you want to live, Cass?” he asks, as if it's a question with more than one answer.

“Yes,” Cass replies, voice shaking, “I do.”

The scratching is louder, and Strade strolls over to the other side of the room, and there's a squeaking sound as he pushes back a row of panels, attached to a rail on the ceiling.

Cass isn't so tied down that he can't see, but he wishes he couldn't.

Along the wall are makeshift cages, fused fencing and scrap metal, and inside each one are three or four undead, emitting screeches and snarls as they notice two fresh, living beings, just out of their reach.

One cage is filled with legless, armless zombies, their heads flailing and snapping, the only articulation they had left, writhing pitifully.

Another with the blind; dark holes where their eyes should be, jaws removed and fingers twisted into useless shapes, reaching through the bars at their murderer.

Some seem to be in makeshift collars, fused into their necks, attached to the wall by heavy chains. These still have most of their parts, arms, legs, jaws, eyes. But even they have large chunks taken out, as if carved away, and the rest of their flesh sloughs, as if slowly melting off their bones.

“These guys get to live forever,” Strade says, “so two choices, Cass. Live or die.”

He waits for a response, seemingly undisturbed by the unholy noises filling the awful, oppressive room.

“I'd rather die,” Cass shakes out, and Strade approaches slowly, fingers wrapped around his knife, “than become... one of those things.”

“Reaaaally?” he asks, muscles in his face locking into a rictus mask, “would you really?”

There's a dull flash in the flickering light, and a moment of surprise as the knife in Strade's hand is suddenly deep within his forearm, buried with brutal force.

Cass screams to the rafters, drawing another bout of growls from the undead in the cages.

“Buddy, dying's gonna hurt,” Strade cackles, wheedling the handle from side to side, scraping the tip on the bone; explosions of what Cass can only call white pain shocking his entire body. Whiting out his brain, the words on his lips, nothing but pain, and the overwhelming desire to bring it to an end in anyway possible.

Through the tears that have sprung to his eyes, Cass can see the pair of gleaming yellow eyes watching him, drinking in his reaction, with all the fascination of a small child with a magnifying glass, frying ants in the sun.

_Ah, was he an ant or an antelope? Prey..._

“Kill me... then...” Cass pants, eyes squeezed shut. God, why didn't he take the knife out already? His entire arm was locked stiff with trying not to move.

“I will. Eventually,” is the reply, delighted, “but as much as I _love_ necrophilia, I like that scream of yours better.”

There was no way the apocalypse did this to him. Not with the purposeful, practised movements, his familiarity with his tools, his clear delight. This was a monster through and through.

“So hard to _come_ by now,” Strade bemoans, using the bloodied knife to cut through Cass' pants, and he slices stripes through the flesh, whether on purpose or by sheer lack of care, he doesn't know.

“Everyone re-animates if I don't destroy their skulls,” he explains, undoing his own belt, “which is a fucking shame. At least when they're alive I can stop them from biting.”

He jabs his thumb towards the bars, where gurgling growling continues to sound, rotting stumps of arms reaching through.

“Here's some trivia, apparently fucking them is a-ok. Just make sure they can't bite you, buddy.”

Cass can taste bile, eyes rolling back as he splutters. _Disgusting._

He yelps, spitting out the last drops of acid as sharp pain drives into his inner thigh, and he struggles to see what the other man is doing.

The blade comes away, slicked with fresh blood, but Cass can feel the torturous stretching and ripping of his skin, the calloused area where his thighs rubbed together. A light hum reaches his ears, mingling with the sounds of the undead, and he bites his lips, trying not to cry out as a long strip of skin is torn clean off. He hisses, shoulders locked together.

“Bi' chewy,” Strade says, chewing loudly, and Cass can hear him rounding the table, “what do you think?”

His brain can't even register the question as reality, not even as a rough hand tries to pull his jaws open. Fuck, he was such an _idiot;_ Hugo would be rolling in his fucking grave-

Or not, he _hoped_ not-

“Open up,” Strade sings, tapping Cass' teeth with a nail, “orrrr-”

He reaches to his belt; but the knife is still at the end of the table-?

Cold metal presses into his cheek, angled so that the handgun barrel points to his lower jaw, “I'll make an opening.”

Heart thundering, Cass ever so slowly opens his mouth, and that face looks ever so slightly disappointed. He gags as salty, bloody skin is forced into his mouth; his own skin. The blood is disgustingly metallic, still warm.

“You should chew, you might choke,” Strade says, pushing back his hair, voice light, as if that might not be so bad. There's red slipping out as he speaks, staining his teeth, and the hot breath that fans over Cass' face is foetid. It stinks of flesh left in the sun, and Cass wrinkles his nose. It's met with a laugh, and he only leans closer.

“Question, buddy,” Strade asks, almost hopefully, “that stump of yours, what are the nerve endings like? Dead? Maybe extra-sensitive?”

Cass can't reply, tongue heavy and dead in his mouth with terror. His arm still throbs painfully, inflamed and red, and warm blood is pooling in between his legs. His right leg twitches with terrible anticipation.

Grinning, making a little show of twirling his gun and running one finger along Cass' body, Strade presses the tip to the end of Cass' leg, where it ends at his useless right knee.

He meets Cass' eyes, and pulls the trigger.

The bang rings in Cass' ears, and it's when his lungs are empty and his throat rattling does he realise he's been screaming; temporarily deafened. The room is a cacophony; howls and screechy snarls from the undead trapped in the cages, clawing desperately to reach the noise and fresh meat, the shot still ringing insistently in his distant hearing, and above it all, excited laughter.

Strade's bent over the table, picking through the remains, breathless laughs heaving his chest as he removes a lump of cartilage and bone.

“Holy shit, didn't think you had any knee-!”

_God- this can't be real. It couldn't be real._ The red lumps of flesh and bone spread across the wooden bench couldn't be his, the spray of red over Strade's shirt and bare skin belonged to someone else, it couldn't be his-

Hot tears trickle down his face, chest filled with a suffocating weight; anger, pain, self-pity, fear; overwhelming him. It wasn't fair, he thought bitterly, childishly, as his vision clouded, it wasn't fair.

“Hey, come on now, it's not like you used it,” he laughs, “am I right? Okay, sorry. That was... _lame._ ”

He howls at his own joke, empty hand slapping at Cass' ruined knee, sending hot gushes of blood to drip from the edges, drip drip drip onto the floor-

There are tears in the other man's eyes as well; tears of mirth that bring the yellow to a shine.

Cass can't register where all the pain is coming from, his mind already exhausted. His head is limp, eyes closed, and he breathes ever so slowly to keep calm.

Apparently, this is the wrong thing to do.

“Hey,” Strade growls, sinking the tip of his knife into Cass' stomach, “don't die on me yet.”

For the first time, he sounds genuinely angry, sending another spike of fear through the haze of pain.

Cass watches blearily, as he strips, and there's detached horror at his erection; of course,  _of course_ he'd get off on this. 

But instead of moving Cass' bleeding leg out of the way, he holds it, testing and squeezing.

“Looks good in there,” he purrs, probing with a finger, “warm.”

He climbs up onto the bench, breathing deep, excited, and presses the head of his penis to the open skin. 

“W-wait,” Cass splutters, trying to flail out of his grip. 

Strade looks up, their eyes meeting, and with the force of a bull, the breath is knocked out of his lungs. The stripe across Strade's face is healing, he hasn't bothered to wipe off his own blood, a swipe of it spread across his top lip where he's licked it clean. 

His eyes are gleaming with lust, excitement, with fire and joy and Cass knows nothing he will say will help him. He's completely and utterly at the mercy of this psychopath. 

And so his words fail him.

Strade wastes no time, and Cass can only try to bite back his screams as Strade forces himself inside, fingers digging and nails scraping, and it's no fucking use because he screams until his throat is hoarse, like he's been in the sun for hours and hours and he wishes he was back outside, he wishes he'd had his throat torn out by one of those undead, or had passed out and dried out and just  _died-_

Strade is grunting, consumed with ecstasy as he carves inside, bracing himself with bruising grips on Cass' hips. 

“Not- feelin' it?” he growls roughly, “sounds like you've- dried out-”

His hands clamp around Cass' neck and he  _presses,_ cutting off the air supply. His mind goes haywire, body thrashing and seizing as it tries to escape, pained gurgles and rasps spitting from Cass' lips, the last of his tears squeezed out as his face slowly turns purple.

His vision is spotting, losing all colour, pain receding into a distant point-

The pressure disappears, and the colour and all the pain floods back, Cass heaving in a huge breath, lips gasping, opening wide in a wordless scream.

Strade leans forward, pressing his knife in between them, and Cass can feel the edge splitting his skin into a future Chelsea smile. 

“Agh, yeah-” Strade moans, grinding his hips into the ruined, leaking stump, and his body locks into place and shudders, teeth clamped together, “fuck-!”

He looks down to Cass, hair lank and hanging in greasy curls, sweat dripping from his forehead, and smiles.

There's a wet, sickening squelch as he slides out of Cass' leg, cock covered in white and red, and he hungrily laps up the blood beading from Cass' lips, careless around the knife still nestled between them.

“Want me to give you a smile?” Strade asks, pulling at Cass' mouth.

Cass feels distant, consciousness pulling away from it all, shutting down. 

He feels a bit like smiling as his vision starts to go black, eyes sliding shut. He's so tired.

His body seizes and jolts, and he's brutally returned to the waking world.

Strade pulls something out of his leg, tossing it to the side. 

In his other hand he swings a hammer by the handle, and Cass' stomach turns to ice as it's lightly tapped against his fingernails; they're taped down, and nearby lie a small pile of old, blunt nails, crusted over.

“Come on now, buddy,” he says, lining up the first nail, tongue running over his teeth in anticipation, “I'm nowhere near done.”

 

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :>
> 
> therewillbecubes.tumblr.com (main blog, fluffy as hell)  
> yanderayy.tumblr.com (my writing blog, mainly sports anime fic lol)


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